Free (2013) Collateral Damage by Colin Smith Page A

determined to illustrate that he was not entirely
ignorant of the affairs of men.
    'Possibly,' said the Palestinian, as if he found the idea rather
distasteful. Nevertheless, he ordered more whisky. Evidently the man was not a complete
fool.
    'The trouble with the Palestinian cause,' he went on, 'is the
same problem the other Arab states have in their confrontation with Israel. In short,
we can't get it together: we lack unity. In fact, we reflect the divisions among
the Arab nation as a whole because almost each Arab state has its clients among
the Palestinians. This has resulted in the tragic situation whereby we're fighting
the Palestinian civil war before we've recaptured Palestine.'
    He tapped his sling. 'This is a civil war injury. Let me explain.
There are those of us, myself included, who some people call moderates. We prefer
to call ourselves "realists". If we can get some of our land back we are
willing to enter into some accommodation with the Zionists. We are also firmly opposed
to the use of terrorism anywhere but inside occupied Palestine - that's the place
you call Israel. We believe that terrorism is counterproductive. We don't want
to get into the situation where the word terrorist is synonymous with Palestinian.'
    'You don't have humanitarian objections?' Dove was choosing his
words carefully. Emma had been killed because she had walked into his war and this
bastard was saying that bombs were merely counter-productive.
    'My dear fellow. My country is at war.
If I thought it would advance our cause one inch to wipe out the population of Tunbridge
Wells tomorrow I would agree that it was a painful, but necessary thing to do. How
many British voices protested the bombing of Dresden when the RAF knew it was packed
with refugees? War is war. You have lost a wife and I have lost a whole country
- and many friends.'
    'But my wife wasn't part of your bloody war,' said Dove through
clenched teeth.
    The publisher noticed that the big man was holding his glass
so tightly that he seemed in danger of grinding it to a powder. 'I know,' he said
hastily. 'I know and you have my deepest sympathy. What more can I say?'
    'You can tell me exactly who the people were who wanted to kill
you.'
    'Well, I don't know exactly who they were. I mean I don't know
the name of the man who was shooting at me, but I have a very good idea where he
was from and why. He was almost certainly one of the German anarchists some of the
Front have been employing for years. They find them convenient
for operations in Europe where a brown skin sometimes attracts attention around
airport terminals or embassies. There are not all that many left now, but the ones
who are left around are - the publisher was going to say 'very good'; in the circumstances
he thought it better to change this to 'very deadly'.
    'And you've no idea who planted the bomb and then shot at you.'
    'I think there are three possibilities.' He rattled off three
names. The first one he mentioned was Koller's.
    'But if these men are supposed to be so good why did they bungle
it?'
    'That's something I've been trying to work out myself,' said
the publisher, 'and I have come to the conclusion that it was the will of God.'
    They talked a little more. The publisher gave Dove the names
and addresses of some friends of his in Beirut. He asked the schoolteacher why he
wanted to go and he replied vaguely that he had to 'understand'. And because the
publisher prided himself on being a sensitive man he thought he understood what
Dove meant. He warned him to be careful in Beirut. It was not, he said, a town to
make mistakes in.
    When Dove left the club he bought an evening paper at the kiosk
by the underground station. Most of the front page was covered by a headline which
read: 'Cabinet minister's daughter arrested in anti-terrorist swoop.'

 

 
     
    9. A Sensitive Matter

 
    Koller was in Paris, having arrived there via Amsterdam, by the
time the police called at Ruth's flat. The news of her